


Universal Inconstants

by withswords



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (i mean. that's what i'm going for at least), Action/Adventure, Aliens, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, BAMF Anathema Device, F/M, Humor, M/M, Not a Star Wars AU, Pining, Space Opera
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21708973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withswords/pseuds/withswords
Summary: Adam Young was a very normal boy.In the present circumstances, this made him extremely dangerous even as antichrists go. One thing you couldn’t usually say for antichrists is their talent for thinking for themselves- something your average very-normal-11-year-old has just begun to really enjoy doing.Because ordinary people don’t much care for burning the whole world down. It doesn’t make for a very good story. But you know what 11 year old boys like...?
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Universal Inconstants

**Author's Note:**

> So like a week ago I got a tumblr anon suggesting that I write a scifi au fic. What a joker, I think to myself! I don't even know what fandoms of mine would be compatible with a scifi reimagining! And then I wrote this in like three days in a fever of inspiration along with a 10-chapter outline. No guarantees on how quickly I'll be working on this because I do have two jobs and I really daren't promise anything to anyone given how I am as a person, but I CAN say that I am so particularly inspired by this premise like basically nothing I've worked on in a long time. So! Hope you enjoy.

Adam Young was a very normal boy. He liked his bicycle and his new dog (Dog) and giant robots. He didn’t like spicy curry or boring news radio or stories about angels and demons and things. Even when the stories were cool and not trying too hard to be cool, they just reminded him of church. It was lucky enough for him (and for everyone) that his father’s priest was not a fire-and-brimstone sort; by the time he first heard seriously of the end times and the lakes of fire and all of that, he’d gotten old enough to decide it was all silliness to scare kids younger than him and he could afford to pay it no mind. But even so, church was offensively boring even on the long list of boring offenders. Vampires were pretty cool, but only the bloody ones.

In the present circumstances, all of this made him extremely dangerous even as antichrists go. One thing you couldn’t usually say for antichrists is their talent for thinking for themselves- something your average very-normal-11-year-old has just begun to really enjoy doing.

When the four horsemen and the combined forces of heaven and hell rocked up to Tadfield, Anathema had just made herself a cup of tea.

The missiles had been primed and aimed. It was only a matter of time. Anathema didn’t know this; Agnes hadn’t said anything about it, other than the fact that the end times were coming in a little under 5 minutes. It was sure to come quick, or Agnes would likely have written more details. Some great flash of light and energy and suddenly, no more everything. That was the family’s guess. The tea was chamomile and jasmine, and very nice.

Not many could know when the end was coming, but Anathema had grown up with the inevitable date inscribed under her eyelids. She had tried to live sensibly regardless. Anathema was made through and through of stuff more vigorous and sturdy than the very core of your average moral spine. People had been telling her so all of her life. She had wayward family all over the tree who threw away their time and pissed away their money in nihilistic fury. Anathema had put on her favorite (black) dress today, and (black) boots and (black) wide-brimmed hat to match. She had seen them in a webstore a few years ago and known immediately that it was the sort of outfit she would want to be buried in.

She looked down one last time at Agnes’s book, thumbed over the leathery old paper on which was printed the final prophecy.

_Att four chymbes and four knockes the face of the worlde shall be dark and nought remayn but the starres; and ye shall be there too, anathema, and so shall I._

There it was, clear as could be. The definitive thing. The end of the world. She glanced up; half a minute yet to 4-o’clock, and then four chimes of her grandfather’s cuckoo clock (speaking of ‘hated objects,’ it was hard not to despise a thing you’d been sure since before you could talk would announce the end of the world) would take another 15 seconds or so to ring through. And four knocks— she couldn’t quite say what that meant, but those surely couldn’t take long. Agnes would probably think it was a funny joke to have her sitting for another hour, she steamed, waiting for four discreet mysterious knocks.

From where she sat in the kitchen, a shadow passed over the door. The figure raised its fist. Well, she thought. It would have been nice of Agnes to get in one more good joke before the end. But she couldn’t blame her for not being in the mood. Even Agnes couldn’t have much sense of humor about the end of the world.

In the last few moments, Anathema took some slight comfort in the fact that, even separated across 400 years, in a way Agnes was right there with her to the end. How unique, not to die alone. She squeezed the book to her chest.

Cuckoo-knock-knock. Cuckoo-knock-knock. Cuckoo… Cuckoo…

In a renovated air raid shelter somewhere in Soho- disused and cobwebby just that morning- a pair of old friends had opted to drink away Armageddon. Not much else they could do. Down there, at least, Aziraphale wouldn’t have to see the fire in the streets and feel compelled to do some last useless acts of good. (That had been his rationale when he proposed it. Aziraphale had been very gracious about it. There were further places to go to avoid Aziraphale’s temptation, than about 10 feet below the surface.) There was no more good on earth. Heaven had been spoiling for the war just as much as hell, which Crowley could have told you easily enough. He remembered how it had been up there in the old days.

It made for a very good hiding spot. Dark and cozy. No electronics. Lots and lots of stolen booze that, in an hour or so, there wouldn’t be much of anybody to miss. All of it was going to get a proper good razing, down to the atoms for a really fresh start, but that would wait until after the war. They had a little while to say their drunken goodbyes. As far as they could figure, the two of them were the only defectors, and so they could stand to be made an example of later. After heaven had won. ‘Won.’ Crowley scowled into the glass where he’d poured a pretty disgusting concoction. Of course he’d torment himself up to the end- he could have just made a fucking cocktail.

“What d’you think,” Aziraphale asked with surprising calm, “supposing hell did win it. Not that I’m saying they will, of course. It’s only natural that— you know. But _supposing_ they did?”

“You don’t wanna know.”

“My dear, I know you’re upset, but I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

“I’m upset?” Crowley cried. Aziraphale nodded and ‘mhm’d him with gentle patience; he rebuffed it with a swing of his arm, sending slurry onto the concrete floor. “I think— I think _you’re_ upset, hm!”

“Obviously I’m upset, Crowley, it is the end of the world. I’m just trying to be practical.”

“S’not gonna make you feel any better though, is it?”

Aziraphale tutted, because yes actually, being practical was already making him feel much worse. The ensuing silence was one of the less comfortable ones the two of them had shared. Not the worst. But they’d have to be really rotten to get comfortable during the apocalypse, they figured; so that was alright. Crowley tried another sip of his drink and winced.

“Oh, do I have to watch this charade?” Aziraphale snapped. “On top of everything else? Let me pour you a glass of wine at least.”

“No.” Crowley waved a hand, face still pulled into a grimace and struggling to unstick. “No, that’s yours.”

“We have more than one—”

“Well, we could be down here a long time, couldn’t we? I didn’t steal them for _me_.”

Aziraphale didn’t gratify him by rising to it. Sighing, Crowley settled back into his seat. He pulled his legs up and in, twisting himself up tighter together; he pressed the cold glass to his forehead and the chips of ice inside began to melt a little faster.

“That’d be the worst possible outcome.” He meant if hell were to prevail, and he said it very seriously as though it were any more than a neutral statement of fact.

“I can imagine.”

“You can’t.”

“Oh. I mean— I don’t mean to, I just…”

“S’alright.” He squeezed his eyes shut. His glasses were sliding steadily down the bridge of his nose, but he couldn’t be bothered trying to put them back. Heaven was stuck up and boring and self-righteous for sure, but at least when they were cruel it wasn’t anything personal. Like a visit to the dentist. But hell was full wall to wall with the type to knock your teeth out for the sheer joy of it. “Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad. Maybe She’d… you know. Call it off.”

Aziraphale laughed through the rust in his throat. “Oh, no.”

“Yeah.”

“Because if they did win—”

“Ineffable plan, yeah.”

“Can’t admit something’s gone off the rails, can we?”

Crowley looked down into his glass. All melted into a dark brown mystery puddle. He could scarcely have told you what he put in it, or if they’d been some kind of alcohol at all.

“Don’t tell me _you_ put that much faith in Her, angel?”

“Don’t you, dear boy?” Aziraphale raised his own glass in a toast, loaded with enough saccharine sincerity to stick in anyone’s teeth. “Your little trick with the antichrist would have been quite neat. I don’t think I ever told you how proud I was to hear it from you.”

“Piss off.”

Aziraphale laughed again, this time clear and holy. He gestured again with his wine, until Crowley begrudgingly followed suit. He tried to sound sarcastic. It was hard, when Aziraphale looked at him that way, but he had some practice. “We tried our damnedest! Can’t be blamed for failing when you’re destined to fail.”

“Here, here! To all the fellow bleeding hearts and failures.”

“To the world!”

“To the world.”

“May it rest in bloody peace.”

They both drank again. That was a mistake. His concoction had been bad before, but now it was _warm_ to boot. He spit it back out into the glass, ignoring a protest at his disgusting and very drunken manners. Lucky for Aziraphale’s gentlemanly sensibilities that he didn’t spit it onto the floor, which was where the stuff rightfully belonged. He snorted at the thought.

“Best case scenario,” Crowley tipped his awful drink onto the floor and watched it drip, “would be—”

Aziraphale sat bolt upright, a shiver slowly spider-crawling up him. “Oh dear.” He glanced around the room with furrowed brows. His eyes hovered over Crowley a moment too long before he dismissed the notion outright.

“— if all of them just, just blasted one another to hell— or, er, you know what I mean. Bless it.”

“Crowley, I’m sensing something very strange.”

“And then when they’re done with all of that, there we come, crawling out of the muck, you know. Last two things on earth. Very got… Gotterboomerang and all.”

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yeah, yeah, that’ll be the aura of evil and— and despairing souls wafting down. We’re not near far enough below the surface to avoid that. They must have started early, the bastards.”

“No, it’s not that at all. It’s… well, it rather feels like… It doesn’t exactly feel like the Ragnarok, let’s say.”

Humoring him, Crowley raised his head and took a big breath in through the nose. He smacked his lips a few times, letting the scent waft over his palate, before he shook his head.

“Nothing?” Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “You’re joking, it’s very strong. And it feels like… It doesn't feel right at all.”

Crowley tried sniffing again, even flicked his tongue out a couple of times. Just the same stale air, the smell of evaporating alcohol, aftershave. He couldn't even smell anything particularly evil, aside from just a hint of brimstone that must have been coming off him. He hadn't seen the point of showering today.

“No, I can’t seem to— Oh!” Crowley reared back when it hit him all at once. He grimaced and clapped a hand over his nose. “What in hell? That’s not you, is it, angel?”

Aziraphale lit up red. “No! How could you— that’s totally inappropriate, and at the end of the world, and—”

It washed over the room again, thicker and warmer, suffocating, like being buried in something cherished (a wool coat and scarf, and a cup of cocoa, and thick reams of old books, and) (a space heater and a favored duvet he’d been gifted in the 50s that still sometimes smelled just a little bit like). Pure. Glowing. Unadulterated love.

The two of them exchanged horrified looks and scrambled for the stairs out. No time to even sober up; Aziraphale had to catch his arm and help haul him up to the door. Flinging it open, they clung to the stone walls and peered up over the grass.

“Piss,” Crowley whispered.

Not to be outdone, and because he might not get another chance, Aziraphale replied, “ _Fuck_.”

\-----

Anathema sat up with a hard, dry breath and immediately laid back down. ‘Hungover’ wasn’t exactly the right word. The headache and the nausea were all correct, the feeling of extraordinary heaviness and stupidity in the limbs and chest. The sense of having no idea where she was or how she’d gotten here in combination with an albatross of impending doom crushing down on her shoulders. Taking all that into consideration, she could be hungover. But part of being a witch- the most important part- was knowing when to use one’s intuition.

She had intuited that earth didn’t have rings.

Her hands slipped over the surface of fine sand, struggling for purchase on it. Small and smooth beads like it had been manufactured for the pleasure of tourists and dumped out into some artificial silica beach. With some aching and struggle, she did manage to sit up. Her foot knocked against a bit of wood. Around her, sagging and bleached, were the sad remains of some kind of shed; half the roof was gone, giving her a clear view of the sky, and two of the walls were rendered down to crumbling beams sunken in the sand, leaning onto one another or fallen to the ground. Maybe even stripped for parts. Wood probably came at a premium here.

Anathema squinted up. The apparition in the sky did not fade or waver when she blinked hard or shook her head or changed position. Four pale bands burned a fact of life across a dingy dusty-blue sky.

Maybe. Um. Maybe that was the moon? The moon could definitely have been destroyed while she was asleep except that she was a very light sleeper and certainly the noise of it would have woken her up. And then there was the matter of how bright it was. The sun didn’t seem to be up, but the ring glow reflected enough light that it could almost be daytime. As cryptic as Agnes was, she was usually pretty literal; Anathema would have thought that if it wasn’t going to be properly ‘dark,’ the book would—

Her eyes widened. She threw herself onto her knees, thumping at the red sand around her in a circle. Where was the _book_? She’d just had it, she was just clinging to it moments before it all went dark, moments before the knocking. How had she gotten here? Did earth have red sand deserts? What was she _wearing_?

Her hands were wrapped in stiff grey-white cloth, like bandages, up her forearms, leaving her fingers bare. Above the elbow draped a finer fabric, letting her breathe. Loose white shirt (cinched with a leather utility belt), loose white pants, wraps from the calves down ending in a leather sole, and a heavy shawl around her shoulders that she assumed was to be pulled over her head for protection. She sat back with a muffled thump. Her favorite coord…

She looked up again to give it one more try. And now that she was thinking a little more clearly, and looking a little harder, she could see it. Faded behind the rings and the pale sky, the stars glinted in little pinpricks, specks of glitter dust failing to catch the right light. Any witch worth her salt knew her star chart. The problems came in when the stars above you weren’t yours.

Knock-knock. “‘Scuse me, miss.”

There was a tall, smiling man in a loose red bisht and a shoulder-bag, face flushed from sun, standing at the dilapidated former door of her shelter. Not a face she knew, but human and therefore welcome.

“Yes?”

“You wouldn’t happen to be a Ms. Device?”

She nodded slowly. “Anathema Device.”

The already cheery man brightened further. “Lucky me, then! Got a package for you, Ms. Device.”

He approached, rifling through his messenger bag- a little crude, frankensteined from cloth and leather- until he retrieved a medium-sized brown box. Cardboard. The juxtaposition almost made her laugh.

“You seem to be taking this pretty well in stride,” she said, taking the box and setting it at her side.

“I suppose I am! Sign here, miss? You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. I’m just happy to be alive.”

“That seems like a good sort of outlook to have.” She handed him back his stylus and a worn looking electric clipboard that belonged about 500 years in the future as imagined by people in the 1970s.

“It surely is. Well! Guess I’m off to find the missus.” He patted his pockets. “Would be nice to find she’s here on this planet, but if not… Not as though that’ll stop me either!”

The postman paused and thought for a moment. “If you like, I’ll give you a lift over to the settlement? No sense staying out here on your own, and it’s a hell— pardon me, miss, it’s a bit of a distance to the nearest signs of life.”

“Oh, that’s— that’s really kind of you.” She pulled off her glasses to rub her eyes, found that they were actually some kind of thick-rimmed visor, and put them back on with a sigh. “I’d like to open the package first though.”

“Take your time! I’m curious about it myself, if you don’t mind?”

“Knock yourself out.”

It was taped shut. In a pocket on her belt was a serviceable two-inch knife, so at the very least if the universe hadn’t gotten her taste in clothes right, it knew well enough that she wouldn’t be caught without one of these. The postman settled himself down against one of the shed’s haphazard posts and lit a long, white, approximal cigarette, with the end of his signing stylus. Multipurpose, he told her with a glow of pride. The smoke smelled faintly of musk and rose oil.

Inside the box was a book, wrapped in brown paper. She could smell the age on it, mingling with the perfume of the cigarette in a dizzying way. Her hands shook as she unveiled it. The tome was hand bound, with a sturdy, heavy wooden cover pieced together by an outer wrapping of cloth. The pages had been stitched in one by one.

Under the cover, on the title page, a neat, looping hand had written: ‘Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter Concerning the Worlde that is To Com: Ye Saga Continued.’

That bloodyminded old witch. ‘World that is to come’ indeed.

Anathema tentatively turned to the first page. To the beginning of the rest of her life.

_1: Ye boy watcheth too much bloddy Starr Wars._


End file.
